THE SPIRIT AND THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
269
Over towers and turrets, sailing in light,
And gardens, that seem'd to rejoice in night;
When the pealing thunder roll'd on the main,
And the town was awaked by the fiery rain,
And the cry of battle, for blood and fame
Follow'd wherever that war-ship came.
I heard, on the night-wind borne along,
Sweet as before, that gifted song.
But look'd I now on the minstrel's thought—
There many an inward sorrow wrought,
Work of wasting; pining for fame,
Yet loathing the gift of an empty name;
Hope, whose promise was little worth,
And Genius, tainted with cares of earth.
I have watch'd the young,—there are thorns with their bloom;
The gay,—but their inward heart was gloom;
